Mae Scanlan: Airport Security

They poke, and probe, and peer, and frisk
To ascertain if you're a risk.
They check your hat, and coat, and shoes
In search of some revealing clues.
They give you a suspicious glance
While smugly patting down your pants.
They check your name, in case it matches
That of some bad egg who hatches
Evil schemes to harm our shores;
God forbid his name is yours.
In some spots, they observe your spleen
While you're encased in a grim machine.
(Your luggage, meanwhile, is so bland
Because of fears of contraband
That, as you take off on your jaunt
There's nothing in it that you want.)
And ultimately, when they find
You're not some vile plot's mastermind,
They pass you, and then wonder why
You tell them that you hate to fly.